


Certainties

by akathecentimetre



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: 1x03 Commodities, 1x05 The Homecoming, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 19:36:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1238422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akathecentimetre/pseuds/akathecentimetre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis will be there for Porthos no matter what the circumstances. Athos is a little harder to read; but that doesn't mean Porthos doesn't trust him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Certainties

Porthos is a man of simple tastes, simple pleasures, and simple hates. He is no fool; he knows that the world does not exist in pure lines of black and white (his own existence is enough to convince him of this truth), but he knows right from wrong, and he holds fiercely onto the certainty and determination of purpose his instincts give him. They have very rarely betrayed him.

Aramis, the very fact of Aramis, upholds the truth of those instincts to the last, and always will. 

Athos had been more difficult, at first. The differences between the two of them have always been plain as day, and they go beyond the physical. Porthos has the barreling body and joking twang of the gutter about him, whereas Athos’s hands display not a hint of farm- or shop-work, and his voice has often driven Porthos to distraction with its highfalutin tones, that arching cadence that rises and falls as though he’s reprimanding a snot-nosed child when he’s arguing with the Red Guards, or even with Treville. “Posh boy, aren’t ya,” Porthos had growled once early in their friendship, only half in jest; Athos had taken it with good grace, given him one of those all-too-rare smiles of his. 

He learned, though, and quickly, what Athos was. More than anything else, it is the trust which Athos himself places in Porthos which makes Porthos believe him worthy of his loyalty and friendship. It is clear to see, by anyone, that Athos does not suffer fools gladly, nor does he take pleasure in anyone pointing out, or even witnessing, his weaknesses. 

It means the world to Porthos, therefore, to be trusted to carry the older musketeer home when he is drunk, or to hold him down for Aramis’s hands when he is wounded. It means a lot, and gives him pride, to be acknowledged as one of the few whom the best swordsman in the regiment, and perhaps one of the best soldiers in France, trusts enough to know him. Porthos has few illusions of his skills as a caretaker – Aramis is more suited to it, he has always thought – but he recognizes that Athos respects him, is grateful for his strength and his simplicity of emotion, of his steadfast faith in his brothers. It is a relief, he sometimes thinks, that he provides. And that is a good thing to do.

Which is why, he knows, that what Athos does when Porthos is lying on the ground at Aramis’s feet, concentrating on what feels an all-consuming pain, doesn’t make sense. He’s not fully aware of his surroundings, nor of what is going on, over the next few days – except for Bonnaire, the black pit of hatred he feels for Bonnaire stays with him – but so do Athos’s words, that self-hatred he sees in his friend’s face when he looks at Porthos and knows that, with those two words _(our duty)_ something between them has broken.

He lets himself cling (although he would never admit that that is what he is doing) to Aramis, instead, until they are back in Paris, until they are sitting at the garrison getting steadily drunker and, somewhere in amongst the intoxication, they mutually and silently agree that something must be done.

The plan which they eventually agree on is Athos’s idea, but they cannot enact it immediately; even Porthos, who has been pacing like a tiger across the compound for most of the day after leaving Bonnaire at the Palace, recognizes that they are all too exhausted, and he is too sore, to ride back to Le Havre that very night. They leave the garrison together and drink half a case of wine in Athos’s apartement, passing the bottles back and forth between them (d’Artagnan tries to be funny by wiping the neck every time it comes to him, but even he is too tired to keep it up for long); and, eventually, Aramis stands, pulls one arm of a snoring d’Artagnan over his shoulders, and raises his eyebrows at Porthos as he heads towards the door.

“In a minute,” Porthos yawns. “See you t’morrow.”

Aramis’s eyes flash between him and Athos, who has taken to staring out of the window, a forgotten and empty bottle still dangling from one hand. Porthos knows what that look means, remembers all too well – from their leavetaking of the manor, and he gathered it had started long before then – the anger Aramis hated himself for, for not being able to let go of the fact of Athos’s reluctance to let him tend to Porthos before it was nearly too late. 

Porthos shakes his head. “We’re fine.”

Aramis looks at him carefully, then nods. His awkward manhandling of d’Artagnan down the rickety stairs fades out of hearing, and Porthos kicks out a leg to close the door behind them.

“So,” he says, settling himself more comfortably in his chair so his wound does not pull. “Normandy, then?”

Athos turns to him with a look which says that he has been waiting for this moment, preparing, even, as though for punishment. He looks more exhausted than any of them, Porthos realizes suddenly through the fog of wine, and there is a wound on his temple which Porthos doesn’t remember noticing from the fight from Muniere’s men. “Yes.”

“What sort of family are y’from, then?”

“We’ve been soldiers since the days of the Conqueror,” Athos shrugs. “A few went off to England, a few to the Crusades. Sicily.”

Porthos knows as well as anyone the hard life of a soldier, but he knows nothing about this – the weight of generation after generation of armor, rusty swords as heirlooms and portraits looming down from the walls. “Anyone else still around?”

Athos shakes his head until his chin comes to rest on his chest, and stays there. “No.”

Porthos grunts, and sits forward. “Get into bed, you bugger. We’re riding early.”

Athos’s eyes rise to meet his. There is barely a spark of life in them. “That’s it?”

“What were you expecting?”

Athos smiles, and it’s possible Porthos is seeing him awaken, somewhere and somehow. “A punch. Or several.”

Porthos stands, grabs Athos bodily by his shoulders, and swings round until his erstwhile leader tumbles in a heap onto the bed he so sorely needs. “I’m wounded. That’s all you’re gonna get.”

“Mmm,” Athos says, falling backwards onto his pillow with a huff. He is half-asleep already, and concern sparks up at the back of Porthos’s mind, because none of this is normal for Athos – but he’s equally sure he does not have the capacity to fix this, not tonight.

“You took me to your house,” Porthos rumbles. “And I can guess what it cost you, brother. Don’t you dare think there’s anything to forgive here.”

He slips out before he’s sure whether Athos was even awake to hear him, but whether he was or not isn’t what matters. Porthos just needed to say it, and now he has.

*

By the time Porthos is in a filthy cell at the Chatelet, still hungover and dying to prowl beyond the reach of his chains just so he can work off some of his anger at being this helpless (there are few things in the world he hates more), Athos has clearly forgiven himself enough for his supposed betrayal that he feels comfortable proclaiming his faith in Porthos, comfortable stating what he knows to be the truth, just as he had to Aramis when Marsac had accused Treville. 

“You _didn’t kill him_.”

Athos’s stare is hard and unforgiving – he is furious, visibly enraged, at Porthos for entertaining the idea that he is guilty even in his own mind. “There’s been a misunderstanding, and we will clear it up.”

Porthos wishes he could be as certain – not because he doubts his friends' abilities, but because he knows the world, and especially the courts, never cleave as faithfully to the truth. And so it proves to be the case.

The proclamation of his death sentence is nowhere near as frightening, and nowhere near as painful, as the hands which rip the pauldron from his shoulder. Denied the physical proof of his bond with his brothers, for an instant, he feels bereft, shorn of everything that holds him upright.

The melee in the alleyway when the fighting and gunshots begin confuses him momentarily, because despite his situation he would not think his brothers capable of murdering Red Guards so indiscriminately, even for his sake. But when one of the men climbs up on the cart and he recognizes the dark blue leather, hope surges in his heart, along with what might be the strongest sense of gratitude he has ever felt, for the idea that they would do this for him.

“Athos,” he breathes.

He realizes he is mistaken from the instant the man lifts his club, well before it cracks across his face and renders him floating and nauseous. Because Athos would never do that.

*

When it is all over, they leave him alone to tend to Charon’s body. 

He finds a few of the more destitute in the Court, the ones who will remember Charon only for the good he did them and the protection he offered, and they help him carry the still bundle of limbs out to a cart where he can rest before they take him to a pauper’s grave. Porthos feels heavy all over, the walls of the leaning alleyway buildings pressing inwards on him. It takes him a long while to remember that he is free, now, and that that moment he had seen the musketeers running down the corridor towards him (covered in sweat and blood and the determination that is born of a long search and unshakeable faith, not the mere opportunism of catching a murderer) should have been a happy one.

He returns to the sight of Flea stretched out on the bed he had shared with her the previous night, tears streaking down her dusty cheeks, as Aramis – his shoulders bowed with regret, who dares not meet Porthos’s eyes, not yet – withdraws Charon’s bullet from her shoulder and, taking out his kit, begins to thread a needle. d’Artagnan, as is his wont, hovers, keeping one eye on the doors and a hand on his sword.

“Hush, now,” Athos murmurs – he has Flea’s right hand between both of his, and judging by the white tips of his fingers he has evidently been allowing her to squeeze him mercilessly to help her through the pain. “It’s nearly over. You will be fine.”

Flea’s lips shake as she seeks out Porthos’s eyes. He nods, tells her without words that _Yes, he tells the truth, these are my friends, I trust them with my life and yours and we will get through this, all of this_ – and she, too, nods. “Thank you,” she whispers.

“Shh,” Athos says again, and a hint of a smile hovers on his lips. He doesn’t even need to look at Porthos to convey his approval.

*

In retrospect, he will find his farewell to Flea appropriate. In the moment, however, he’s far too aware of his inability to control his emotions, and his exhaustion. He feels the certainty that he will never see her again weighing him down, anchoring his feet to the muddy cobbles. 

It is with a feeling of great relief, therefore, that he looks upwards at his brothers on their horses, and looks upwards into the equal certainty of his salvation.

**FIN**

**Author's Note:**

> Historical/book notes: it's commonly held that Dumas took Athos's name/identity from a real 17th-century musketeer (and a Gascon!) called Armand de Sillègue d'Athos d'Autevielle, who lived from 1615-1644. He was born in the south of France near the Pyrenees, and very close to Spain. It's unclear to me at this moment _exactly_ where Athos's fictional domains of 'La Fère,' the real versions of which were owned by Anne of Austria at the time, were; there is a modern commune called La Fère northeast of Paris in Picardy, but it's more likely that they were also in the south, as there are numerous references in the historical literature to the Queen or her allies traveling through them from Spain to get to the Parisian court. Our new adaptation, therefore, radically relocates Athos's lands to what is now Haute-Normandie, Basse-Normandie, or even just the northwest of the Ile-de-France, as those are the possible Departments the lads would have to cross to get from Paris to Le Havre and back; hence the Norman bumpf! (And yes, the Normans did invade and rule over Sicily starting in 1071 - that is far and away my favorite 'say _what_ ' fact of medieval history.)
> 
> I've also had to tweak my headcanon slightly from my first fic for this show, [Des Petites Morts](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1160359), where I had Athos having never killed anyone before Milady; the third episode kind of nixed that idea, as his portrait showed him in armor which he would most likely have used on campaigns before joining the Musketeers (probably an elder son thing, whereas Thomas stayed at home and was painted in civilian clothes). The perils of giving into plot bunnies immediately are legion!


End file.
